


CRS

by StarsAndUniverses



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Cybertron, Cybertronian Culture (Transformers), Cybertronian Politics (Transformers), dw none of them are in more than 1 chapter, i just needed faceless bots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28972998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAndUniverses/pseuds/StarsAndUniverses
Summary: Search: CRSDid you mean:- CRS (Cybertronian Relations Society)- CRS (Chronic Radiation Syndrome)





	CRS

Quickshot had been a member of the Cybertronian Relations Society for thousands of vorns. He first signed on during the First Post-Exploration Era, when the Cybertronians who’d taken to the stars in search of other worlds were finally coming back with tales from every corner of the universe. Of the worlds he’d visited, more often friendly than not, he’d seen the planets and people grow and evolve for countless generations. He’d paid particular attention to their history, fascinated in the birth and growth of so many societies and cultures. 

He’d paid enough attention to notice a trend. 

Pristine worlds and people, until things went wrong. Mysterious, inexplicable illnesses, without an obvious cure. Death that crept slowly, methodically, covering planets like macabre blankets, creeping under the radar of citizens until it was too late. One generation would be fine but the next would come out wrong. It’d be blamed on gods, on crops, on weather, on water, and changes would be made but the next generation after would come out wrong still. Set after set, more prone to aches and pains, more prone to cancerous tumors and terminal illness, weaker, slower, smaller, born closer to death than their parents had. 

But short-lived species were too used to death to notice and by the time they realized they were being exterminated, they were twenty lives too late. The damage had been done and they were dead within decades.

Ecosystems sputtered to a pathetic stop, food supplies ran short. Tests were run, scientists were pressured, people were sacrificed, all in desperate hopes to unlock the key to a life they’d grown used to. Buildings would crumble without those to repair them, governments would fall when leadership became too taxing for anyone, for everyone. If the people were strong, Quickshot knew, they’d at least go out with a war, preferring to kill each other than succumb to the slow, quick choking of the weaker-willed, who’d crawl into pits and die in their homes, one by one, until the species was extinct. 

Cybertronians know of war, Quickshot thought, files and reports of hundreds of dead planets scattered on his desk as the echoes of bombshells shook his bunker. They know too much of it, if the fact that their very history was broken up by what two wars it sat between. A miracle Cybertron itself hadn’t been destroyed. 

That may be because the planet  _ fed _ off it, though. Every time resources ran short, a new mine would be discovered in the nick of time. Every time they were on the brink of extinction, a titan rose up out of the Lithium Flats to do the fighting for them. Every time a tyrant seemed too strong to overcome, too mighty to kill, a Prime would rise from the split energon and piles of corpses, as if its only purpose was to war. 

Another shell shook Quickshot back to the world and the damning evidence in front of him. Official medical reports, radiation readings, legal actions taken against Cybertronians as a species, effectively restraining orders on their entire race. 

A planet would live, Cybertronians would arrive, and a planet would die. Once, twice, over and over, as long as there was a single Cybertronian off Cybertron. 

He could feel it the second he stepped on a planet now. The galaxy trembled with fear when the CRS entered its airspace. Saints would give up their gods if their ships were on the horizon. Monsters would slit their throats if their pedes hit the dirt. 

Quickshot thought of a Cybertron where no one could leave. Future production lines stuck on the same ground Predacons walked on, millions of sparks cramped into one ball of metal floating millions of light years away from the nearest star. Was it worth it? Would the bodies of newsparks be melted down on the surface of their planet, because they couldn’t just jettison their elderly into space like they’d seen so many other planets do when they’d gotten too full? 

And if those planets had died, after leaving their old, sick, and helpless to suffer and die for their own benefit, was it really such a crime? Didn’t those walking abominations deserve to choke on their own hubris if it was enough to justify killing their own people? Didn’t they? 

The sky screamed in anger as missiles began to drop from the heavens above his head. The CRS had information on other worlds that future Cybertronians could only dream of having. But if it were doomed to be a cage for his people? 

The CRS was weak. They’d been too weak to protect their own planet. That’s why he’d been cast out so abruptly, so unceremoniously. But if they wouldn’t protect the future of Cybertron? Then he would. 

The button in front of him was unassuming, a simple “Ok?” to assure that yes, he did want to delete the backup of CRS Information Archives. It’d taken a war and a half to get the pathetic city housing the pathetic group to evacuate entirely. He clicked. A second later the missiles hit. 

And no one would ever question the millions of last contacts the Cybertronians had caused. 


End file.
